The title of this blog is somewhat suggestive if you have an incredibly filthy mind.  If you are on of those people, I salute you because we seemingly have a lot in common.  That is not to say we a lot as in many things in common as much as we have a large amount of immaturity in common.  We both possess an incredible level of the inability to be an adult in most situations.  Thank you for existing as it is so true that childishness loves company.  It should be painfully obvious to those that have been here before and read these ramblings that the general rules of writing do not apply here for many reasons:  I am not all that concerned about them and I am too lazy to go back and proofread most of this.  Very well.

Once upon a time I was walking home from school.  I was old enough to know that my dick worked, but young enough to not really know how to work it or how it worked.  I would venture a guess that I was around 12 years old.  I had reached the age when the Peacemaker monniker I had assigned myself was dead.  At least it was dead in name, only to rise again years later and cripple me from living.  But, we have mostly covered that previously.

I had just dropped off my friend, Erin Foley, at her house after school.  I was walking down the street and there were no sidewalks on this particular street, so I was street-walking.  As I was walking, something struck me as odd.  More so that struck me as odd, it was as if a lightening bolt shot down from the heavens and alerted me to the bush to my right.  I did not stop, I was stopped.  There is a big difference.

I am not here to say that what happened next was akin to Moses being told to lead the Israelites out of Egypt, but it was close.  This was not the burning bush, but as it turns out this bush was indeed very hot.  Very hot.  The time is somewhat important to the story, as you could already figure out by context clues it was sometime after 3 pm on a weekday.  There was little to no traffic on this suburban neighborhood road and I was alone, staring, frozen, and transfixed by this hot bush.  I did not realize why at first, but then it was so clear.  The contents of this hot bush became very clear to me, as if they were calling out to me.

I stepped closer and reached into the bush and pulled out roughly fifteen or more Playboy magazines.  It was like I found the fountain of youth as an old man.  The Holy Grail for pre-teen and teenage boys was a killer stash of porn and I had just unearthed it.  This moment changed so many things in my life.  I do not think I can over-stress just how important this moment had instantly become in my brain at the time.  I had just received a phone call from my agent telling me that I was going to be the number one draft pick and my financial future would be forever secure.  I was going to be inducted into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame.  I was going to be loved.  Many people will not know the names of some of these beautiful women, but to the best of my knowledge the year would have been 1986 or 1987.  These Playmates include some of these women:  Luan Lee, Julie Peterson, Marina Baker, Anna Clark, and more.  These women were more than enough for a young boy to sink his teeth into as a first glimpse of what a naked woman could be.  And never forget 1987 every young man’s dream came true when Vanna White graced the cover of Playboy and we all got a glimpse of what we had been imagining for years.

Up to this point in my career as a person, it had been rocky at best.  A few pivotal moments had allowed my small steps forward or up the social ladder of acceptance.  But, shaking off the over-zealous and god-sent messenger label proves to be a bit more difficult than a Mad Dog hangover.  I was searching for something major, something big that would forever seal my fate as “one of the guys.”  This score of porn was just what the doctor ordered.

My selfishness was not so overt at first.  I did not have time immediately to concoct specifics of my plan to become popular and accepted.  I had a more daunting task at hand, getting all of these magazines home.  I have heard stories of people being in crucial situations and then something clicks in their mind and their instincts take over.  This is what happened to me at this time.  I immediately opened my book and dumped all of my school books into the street.  Without hesitation, I then quickly and forcibly crammed every magazine safely inside.  My book bag could not have been more full.  Never had it experiences such fullness, in actual contents or in content.  As I somehow managed to fit the last of the magazines inside, I zipped it back up with purpose and determination.  The zipper broke.

I tossed the zipper head into the street, alongside my text and notebooks.  Without a second glance, I made my way for home as quickly and nonchalantly as a young boy can when he knows his life’s winning lottery ticket is over his shoulder, waiting to be cashed.  I felt like Santa must feel when he is making out on his first steps from the sleigh.

I was a latch-key kid, so when I got home I was free to examine my score without intrusion.  I had an older brother, by a bit more than a year, so I would have to be careful…very careful.  Here is the where the initial level and deepness of my selfishness and delusion began to cement itself in my brain.  As these magazines of the forbidden treasures of women lay before me, I imagined in my wildest thoughts of how well-versed and comfortable I would soon be concerning a woman’s body.  I would know everything there was to know about a woman and no one could argue against me.  I would have this knowledge and I would be a mystic to the other boys as they tried to imagine how I knew what I knew.  Secrecy would build my legend.  Secrecy would forever secure my place in the greatness of the halls of middle school boys.

Not only would I know everything, but this reputation would make me the most desired of all the boys.  The other boys would befriend in hopes of gleaming a bit of my knowledge and the girls would love me in hopes of experiencing what frightened and intrigued them.  Nothing can ease nerves as well as surety.  While I was the coronation in my head as king of the boys soon to be men, an uneasiness lurked in the back of my mind.  I tried to shun it, tried to silence it, but soon it became too loud and I knew it would be all too true.  But, at least for a few moments I had my hands on what I thought was going to be a crash course in being a man, a real man.  It would be my crash course for becoming a man who could love a woman the right way and it would also be my ticket to achieve my ultimate goal of being loved and revered by all those around me.  This find was nothing short of everything I ever needed in life.

As I began to pour over the pages and more importantly pictures, I realized just how lucky I had been.  There had to be a catch and that catch was headed full speed in my direction.  What about my text books I had left behind?  Surely, a stash of this proportion would be missed and sought after.  Panic began to set in until I realized that no matter what the cost, the potential rewards of this transgression far outweighed any punishment.

To be continued….

A Mystic has disappeared into the night. Of course, when I say a “Mystic,” what I am referring to is one of the wise, kind and beautiful creatures from the movie, “The Dark Crystal.” These creatures represented love and kindness, wisdom of the world in which they lived and quiet devotion to whatever it was that they were doing. At least, that is what they meant to me. And those same things were represented in my brain by the man Robert Schimmel. This is how I first saw him and its a good clip in case you don’t know him yet:

I know the phrase, “People die everyday. Lots of them.” I am sure I have even used that phrase many times and a lot of those times I certainly meant them in a very dismissive way regarding someone’s death. I am no doubt a bastard and that is just one example of how I often embody the traits of a bastard. But, today is a sad day for comedy. Many will echo this and me writing it is just an echo of people who have already said it and said it loudly.

Robert Schimmel was my brother’s favorite comedian. He was the only comedian my brother ever, ever, ever asked me to get tickets for him to a show. I have not been doing comedy for an extremely long period of time, but almost nine years is not short period, I suppose. For all of those nine years, there have been comedians at the two comedy clubs every weekend, with the exception of only a few. Nine years, fifty-two weekends in every year and one time did he ask me to do this for him. If you can do that math at home that is roughly 468 times to see comedy at one of the clubs in town. That is almost 1,000 opportunities to try to cash in my pull at the local clubs. One in a thousand.

I am not saying there were not other times he wanted to ask, but if there were, he didn’t. Robert Schimmel stands alone as the one comedian that my brother could not deny himself the urge to get me to get him tickets.  To say Schimmel was 1 in a 1,000 does not do him justice. It does not even come close.

I am sitting in a packed up room of an apartment that I have rented for the last year and nine months and I am sad. I am sad in the same way that many people are sad. I look around my packed up and nearly empty room and know that it is this way because of comedy. I am 34 years old and essentially everything I own can fit into my car. Sometimes I feel like this life choice is dragging me down into some thankless gutter, but never do I think that it is not worth it. I know it is worth it because someday, if I work hard enough, believe enough, someday I may be able to get to a point where I could believe that I made it to a point that is 1/100th as good as Schimmel. That would be damned good.

For those in the know, he went through many different personal wars and survived all but the last one. And each time he came out on the other side, he went back to stand up comedy. First time I saw him, I was waiting tables at the now long gone Joker’s Comedy Cafe in Dayton, Ohio. My tables did not get very good service that weekend. This was before the smoking ban and all the shows were made to be smoke free per his request. What people in the audience didn’t know, was that the shows were that reason because of his illness. Yet, he still came to Dayton, Ohio, to tell his jokes. Dayton is or was widely considered to be a hell gig of a town. Why would someone battling for their life come do a hell gig? Because he loved it so much. Wow.

That makes me embarrassed to think about all the little shit I bitched about along the way.

I used to think that the purpose or meaning of other people’s lives was to give other people’s lives meaning. Not sure if that makes sense or not? Let me explain: whenever someone dies, especially young or before their “time,” people always say it makes them evaluate their life and not take it for granted. Seems like other lives give our lives meaning when those other lives are taken away. But, here is where I was wrong. His life may be over and I may be evaluating the gift of my own during this time and because of his death, but I will continue to be inspired by him the same way I was when he was alive. His life doesn’t give my life meaning, his life was meaning, at least to me.

I do not know what the future holds or where I will even be living 3 months from now. I do know that I will keep trying to reach a level of my craft that would make me not be embarrassed to be in a room with someone like Robert Schimmel and call myself a comedian. That day may never come, but what fun is it if I don’t keep trying. A little self doubt seems like a small obstacle in comparison to the mountains he climbed to keep telling jokes…even in Dayton, Ohio.

In “The Dark Crystal,” whenever a Mystic died, so did one of its evil counterparts, a Skeksis. So maybe, just maybe, somewhere in the world at the moment when Robert Schimmel left his planet, so did some kind of dark force of sadness. Maybe it was a Federal Reserve banker?

Here’s another great clip…enjoy! Thanks for the laughs, Robert.

What is Studebaker Pie? No one can know for sure, but people have their allegiances to it and against it. Some claim it is evil, while others claim it is an agent of love. One thing is for certain, it keeps the people in the town of Bedroomia on their toes. Written, Directed and Edited by Ryan Singer.

Pilot Episode

Episode #2 – “Answers”

Episode #3 – “Clarity”

Episode #4 – “Reckoning”

Episode #5 – “Night”

Series Finale – “My Child”